It Is That I Am
by mya
Summary: My own interpretation of life within the Confederate Ghost Program.


  
  
IT IS THAT I AM  
  
By Mayavan Thevendra  
  
  
Father is tired today. I sense it in him. His voice cuts the air in my room, always loud, and buzzing with static, but today it is heavy, weighted with some pressure that I will never know of. What godlike feats he achieves while I sleep, I cannot begin to think, but they take a toll on him. They always have.   
  
Today, he shows me how to stop a man's lungs from working by touching his wrist. Images of the terran nervous system flash like memories across the walls, ceiling and floor of my room; they are maps, and I know every road by heart, every junction, every dead end. After I commit Father's words to memory, he tells me nine more ways to end a person's life, each beautiful in its simplicity, each surprising in its elegance. Father knows so much.  
  
I did well today, and he is pleased; as a reward, I am allowed out of my room, and into the corridor beyond. There is so much more to see in the corridor, such light and length, and colour. But before long I feel awkward, as though the brightness of it was watching me, threatening me. Father would have allowed me more time, but of my own accord, I return to the dark comfort of the room, and take to the floor. I feel guilty for rejecting Father's reward, as I always do, but, as always, he seems to somehow approve that I should prefer the blackness of my chamber. I am glad that I please him so.  
  
***  
  
Father's words reach me even as I sleep. But in these hours, when all is quiet and dim, and my body lies inert, he does not instruct me. Instead he guides my thoughts to the vast spaces that lie outside of my room, and beyond the corridor. Spaces that I have never seen, save as his teachings on my walls. In my sleep, they are no longer frozen snapshots or hazy, awkwardly moving images, but great, yawning realms, that surround and envelop me. I see people, and great constructs of metal and concrete, and as I walk through the crowds, I feel their hatred, and their jealousy; their repulsive, lustful thoughts cling to me like water, and when I can stand it no longer, Father's voice pulls me from the filth, cleansing me, and he tells me those same words, again and again:  
  
'Their weakness will be your strength.'  
  
***  
  
I awake to the cold, rasping sound of Father's breath. The burden has lifted from his voice, and he tells me that today, I must go to the hall, to show him that I have remembered the basic skills he has taught me. When I was young, the mere thought of the hall filled me with dread; Father punished me many times because of my fear, but in time, his wisdom was proven. The floor opens to me, and as I drop down, my flesh turns to steel, my blood to ice water. There is no fear, no joy; there is only control: total, and unwavering. I fall for thirty feet, and hit the hall's flooring silently. Shadows seep in from around me. I cannot see the sides of the arena, but I can feel them, just as I can feel three shapes crouched amidst the shroud. Their heartbeats are slow: patient and steady, like athletes, their breaths thin and shallow. They wait like a trio of hunting beasts, an ominous triangle, with me at its central point. I bend close to the ground, and suck the sour air into my breast, holding it.  
  
In a moment, Father will say 'Wound', and the sparring will begin. Time after time I have sharpened my claws in this place, fighting faceless figures. I have never known who they are; at times I have fought with them against a single other, or else, as now , I have been set upon by several attackers. In the past I have left this place with the sticky sensation of triumph beneath my nails, and also the coppery tang of defeat in my mouth, but I have learnt a lesson every time. The routine is unbreakable, and immaculate. 'Wound' - fight - learn. 'Wound' - fight -learn.   
  
I wait, and I listen.  
  
"Kill." Says Father.  
  
All too quickly, the figure in front leaps in towards me, and while my head is still clouded with confusion, he spins, delivering a kick at my midsection with the power of a jackhammer. My arms cross, blocking it, but the force of it sends me reeling into his companion behind me. Fingers like stilettos swipe at my neck; I lean away, and hit the ground hard, as the third of them cuts my legs from under me with his heel. My breath escapes in a pathetic splutter, the word 'kill' echoing in my head. I curse my weakness, I curse my foolish faith in the routine. I should have known this time would come. For one brief moment, my concentration breaks, but my will is strong. There is no fear. I will make Father proud.  
  
Hands moving faster than any bullet weave in from above. I leap through the flurry; pain licks at my sides, a rib shatters, but it is deserved punishment for my mistake. There will not be another. I tumble, and with a twist, I turn to face them.  
  
Suddenly their thoughts dance across me like rain, and pierce me like shards of glass. Till now, I have only felt Father's spirit, a pillar of unyielding granite, guarding and watching over me; through my life, his voice has been the only one. Now there are three others. Like oil, they slip in and out of reach, probing my resolve, testing it. There is no time to wonder at them, to marvel at the presence of minds like my own; Father's intentions become clear: his hardest test lies before me.  
  
It isn't only their minds which move like oil. Three snakes slither about my flanks, eyeing my every movement. A chill pinches the air behind, as the first one begins his assault anew. I feel my mucosa buckle and rupture as he presses his will against mine; he is strong, and while he engages my thoughts, his companions close in to assail my flesh. I am in control.   
  
They attack with fast, yet methodical strikes, seeking bone and nerve; with every block, I draw them in closer. The air whistles as limbs thrust and retract; I ease my guard, and the third one takes the bait. There; his knife-palm slits the space past my cheek; my hands grasp like spiders' fangs, and with a quick press, his elbow snaps like kindling. Before I can finish him, his partner separates us with a kick; I roll back into a crouch and wait.   
  
My ears ring from the sounds of the first one's voice, I can feel his grip, pressing my organs, vibrating them. I must take him quickly. Two and Three move in again, Three's crippled arm hanging limp at his side. They will be more cautious this time. But no, Three launches himself at me, reckless, gripped in a blood fury. I turn his attack aside with ease, and my fingers stab his brow, piercing skull, and mauling the softness within. Wait, what is this? He still lives, and grips my arm like an iron vice, trapping my hand inside him; he has caught me! A desperate trick, sacrificing himself to tie my weapons, while the last of them moves in for the kill! In a heartbeat, Two will be upon me. I could free myself with but one blow, but by then, it would be too late. Focus! If I cannot escape the snare, then I will use it! As Two darts in as I shield myself behind his partner's puppet-body. His brain oozes as I form a gory, hidden fist; and taking the last of his life with it, my hand explodes through the back of his head. It connects with Two's face, and his nose ruptures in a shower of broken cartilage, and bloody bone splinters. I send my other hand through Three's carcass like a harpoon, spearing Two's chest on the other side. My fingers wrap around his heart, and his breath shudders as he dies; suddenly, there are two corpses impaled on my arms. They slide to the ground easily enough; their gambit failed.  
  
I feel the blood vessels in my temple burst, as One breaks my defences, and moving like smoke, he is in front of me, a barrage of kicks pummeling my abdomen. But at the same time, he is behind me, and again at my sides; he has wormed his way inside my mind, and is clouding my sight. Phantoms dance outside of my reach, luring me with a lowered guard, and punishing me when I hit nothing but air. My shoulder blade cracks, as a hammer fist flies from the darkness. A gash opens up my thigh, sending white fire along my spine, and forcing me to my knees. My senses are being deceived, I can no longer trust them; but with each blow, he betrays his position: his next strike will be his last. My legs wobble as I roll into a ready stance, and half a dozen spectres circle me, taunting me. I am prey to him, and I feel his confidence. A muffled movement; I close my eyes, and flinch out of reflex before the parting air. His killing strike has shattered my collar bone instead, and now I have his leg in my hands. He grunts as I bend it the wrong way, and force him to the ground; as his hip breaks beneath my knee, all at once the phantoms vanish.   
  
In my mind I hear the word 'kill' once again, but it is no longer Father's voice that utters it. I take my opponent's wrist in my hand, and press.   
  
***  
  
My wounds heal quickly. The room is warm now, and smells of antiseptic, and there are images of pharmaceutical drugs on the walls. I know all of their names.  
  
I can feel Father looking at me, but he remains silent. He hasn't spoken to me since I returned from the hall, but somehow, I am glad because of it. It is enough to simply know that he is there, and that he is watching over me. I have done well, and he is pleased, I know it. And as with every journey to the hall, I have learnt a valuable lesson. I have learnt not to trust in routine, not to place my fate in the hands of convention, or pattern, but to be always ready for the unexpected, and then to counter it.  
  
You have taught me to teach myself, Father. Perhaps, someday, I will no longer need you to instruct me.   



End file.
